


Five People Thor Wignutt Met In Summerland (And One He Didn't)

by primeideal



Category: Summerland - Michael Chabon
Genre: 5+1 Things, Baseball, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a lot easier to root, root, root for the home team when you have a home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five People Thor Wignutt Met In Summerland (And One He Didn't)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kristin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristin/gifts).



> Thanks to Moriwen for betaing.
> 
> I adored all of the prompts left, and decided to throw as many of them as I could together in one fic!

“You'll be wanting to adjust your hat.”

Thor Wignutt paused, trying not to reach for his visor. It was a useful cap, particularly on days like those when the sun made half the horizon difficult to look at. Behind him stretched a shadow a little bit longer than his body.

The shadow, had it been a living being, would have fit into his clothes perfectly.

Thor knelt down. “I'm fine. It's a one-size-fits-all hat.”

“Seven plastic notches?” asked Lenachar, a ferisher woman, raising her eyebrows at him.

“That's how—that's the way it is,” admitted Thor.

“Seven,” said Lenachar, “is for stretching. You've stretched that too far, its days are through. Get a new one, is what I'd say.”

“I don't need a new one,” Thor responded.

It had been _easier,_ being an android. There were scripts you could follow. Minimize the costs of other people's time and effort, find the most efficient way to exit the conversation when you didn't need to be there. He'd never been jealous of humans and their free will, not when there were enough pseudorandom numbers floating around—look at any box score and all the statistics—but he had no idea whether ferishers got worked up about that kind of thing. Maybe their wills weren't free and independent, but bound to their knoll as a whole. Knitted together.

“I,” said Lenachar, “think you do.”

“All right. Well,” Thor nodded, “I'll _get_ one. Later.”

“I can make you one. That'll fit nice and snug.”

“You—at the moment—wouldn't it be difficult for you to get the materials, to make something big enough to fit my face?” He reached up and took the hat off, watching the light stream through the seven holes on top. No, there were six that belonged there, and one that was just a tear. Maybe the ferisher had a point.

“You underestimate me. Besides. Doesn't the Middling have people who make giants' hats?”

“No—well, yes, okay, but they're not _literal_ giants.”

“Angels, then.”

“They're not—” He broke off, remembering the photos of Rodrigo Buendía outside his stadium, those enormous plastic caps. “Okay. Yeah. They do. But you really don't have to.”

“I never said I _had_ to.” Her smile suggested that ferishers, too, believed in free will. “I'd like the chance.”

“Yeah. Okay. Er, thanks.”

“Come along, then, and I'll take your measurements.”

Lenachar's workshop was a crowded room that Thor would have had great difficulty fitting into even without the piles of patches that were dotted throughout. She climbed up the back of a chair to wrap a measuring tape around his head, and he flinched. While the contact did not feel uncomfortable, it was frustrating knowing that even the precisely-measured statistic was going to change far more quickly than he'd ever imagined. Androids didn't need to shrink, or grow.

“Who's your team, then?” Lenachar asked, as she busied herself with an intricately-geared sewing machine.

“The Shadowtails? The Roosters? I don't even know anymore.”

“The roosters' roster. Thrilled the rooters. Coming home to roost now, are you? Eheheh,” she said, trailing off in a way Thor found distinctly uncomfortable.

Desperate to change the subject, he ventured, “So do you make a lot of uniforms?”

“You could say that,” said Lenachar, gesturing at a pile of fabric. With a flourish, she knocked it aside and for a moment Thor wished he was a better catcher, so he could snag the tottering patches, but they landed on another pile, completely upside-down, with none out of place. “You could also say I've never made a uniform in my life.”

Thor paused as he tried to process that. “Except, one of those would just be telling stories.”

“Stories are all well and good, but no, here's the trick. I've made jerseys for plenty of teams. And hats and socks and...other bits of equipment besides. And there's never a _uniform_ one among them. They all have their little quirks, you see.”

“Uh...I suppose, yeah. Do—are the teams all the same species?”

“Often they are, but even then, ferisher men will sometimes need extra clothes that the women don't. Or I know some superstitious players will get on hot streaks, so I have to choose special fabric for the socks so if they're wearing the same pair during a win streak, the smell doesn't conk out the other team.”

“That'd be one way to keep a win streak alive.”

“Forfeits don't count. As you've guessed, the interspecies jerseys are a little more fun.”

“But they scale, don't they? When you're on the same field. That's how come we were able to—to play with giants,” he trailed off. Humans could shrink to ferisher size, and ferishers could grow like humans, but what was he going to do when stuck on a visiting diamond?

“Ah, yes. But here on my job—there's some tact required when working on a Sasquatch's cleats. Some werebeasts need loose-fitting jerseys, to handle the transformations. Giants like pinstripes, they think it makes them look thinner. And you'll never guess who I got to make a hat for the other day?”

“An angel. Someone from the Gleaming, that is.”

Lenachar glanced over at him. “How'd you know?”

“A hat would mess up their halos, if they had any. And you acted as if I couldn't guess, that it would be someone who was a surprise for you. You probably didn't have many Gleaming customers, before. It was the logical deduction.”

“I suppose it was. Now, here, have a look at this...”

She rose from her bench with a cap in tow, handing it over to Thor. He paused, running his fingers over the logo on the front. It was a rooster—but one whose tail bent _in_ at an impossible angle, as if the patch had really been turned inside-out. Vanishing into the shadows. “It—it's beautiful,” he said. “But it doesn't fit.”

“Oh, it will,” said Lenachar, with a conviction hinting that—while their minds might be untethered and free—his body at least had a set course to follow. “Just not yet.”

“Okay. In that case, er, thank you very much.”

“It won't fit the _normal_ way,” she amended. “But that doesn't mean you can't wear it now.”

“Where?”

“As a rally cap, of course.”

He examined it more closely. It didn't have a series of snaps like his old cap, but all the same, he was able to turn it inside-out and perch it backwards on his head. It sat, gently, but didn't fall off even as he paced the room.

“For whenever you're losing,” she said. “But not yet lost.”

“I—I guess it does fit,” he admitted. “Thanks again.”

* * *

“What are they singing?”

Taffy paused, listening to the rowdy songs echo beyond her. “I don't actually know. I think it's something about wanting fresh goat mead.”

Thor glanced at the crowd of humans, and—were those wolves?— supporting their team (figuratively) and each other (literally, around the shoulders, as they staggered away from the stadium). “Sounds a little late for that.”

“You'd have to go ask them.”

“I think I'll pass.”

Several of the disappointed visiting fans were still there, interworld baseball meaning that one never had to worry about leaving early to beat the traffic home. Indeed, leave too early and you might find yourself back at home before the game had even begun, and the team would pull out a win in your absence just to spite you. So Thor and Taffy were in no rush, either, to watch the celebrations fade into the distance.

“I say,” said Taffy all of a sudden, “here's someone who might know.”

“Er—that's all right—” Thor began, but the Sasquatch was not in the mood to take no for an answer. She paced towards a short werefox, who stepped backward at the sight of her. It seemed like he was about to drop the box he was holding, but even when it slipped through his paws, it remained in place, dangling from a thick cord around his neck.

“Can you translate that song?” she asked without preamble. “The one they all were singing, I mean?” Thor, too, approached him with an apologetic smile.

The werefox nervously picked at his fur. “Er, I'm not familiar with all of it...”

“Put it this way. What do you barter?”

“Barter?” Thor echoed.

But the werefox flipped open his box, revealing several bottles full of unfamiliar drinks, and other small bags. “Goat mead! Rich boar meat! Cracker Jarls! Only the best for our discerning customers.”

“Like I said,” Taffy smiled. “Barter me goat mead and cracker jarls.”

“That is _not_ what you said,” Thor noted, before turning his attention back to the werefox. “So you're a vendor?”

“Well, I barter, but yes.”

“How did you miss him during the game?” asked Taffy.

“Your section was busy,” said the vendor, “doing the wave.”

“I swear that's another one of the Coyote's innovations.”

“I was trying to calculate the period and frequency of the wave,” Thor admitted.

“Well, anyway,” the vendor said, slipping back into type, “It's late, but can I get you anything to eat?”

“Er—I—didn't bring anything to barter with.”

“Hey, come on now,” said Taffy, rounding on the werefox. “Your game is over, they're going to have to cook something all-new tomorrow, won't you?”

“Er, yes, I suppose they will,” he answered.

“Does every stadium serve the same thing?” Thor asked.

“Do you mind staying out of this? I'm trying to do you a favor,” Taffy interrupted.

“No,” the werefox stammered, “every area will have its own specialty, and I don't actually cook. I just show up, do my rounds, and then that's about it.”

“So, they don't actually care what you do with these leftovers?”

“Well, not as such—”

“So what were you going to do, throw them out? You might as well give them to someone less obviously intoxicated than those home fans, and who won't just drown their sorrows like the visitors who're still here.”

“I mean—”

“And I'd need a few too many to have them really take effect, if you're worried about saving resources you're better off giving one to somebody who's small.”

“You do not have to bring my height into this!” Thor yelled.

“Oh don't you worry,” said the werefox, “she has a point. Here you go.” Reaching into his pouch, he handed Thor a bag and a bottle, the condensation on the latter making his paws cold with more than sweat.

Taffy nodded down at the bag. “Don't eat that too fast, there'll be a prize inside.”

“Is that so?” Thor reached in, but at first found only sweet kernels, which he ate slowly. The goat mead was a savory complement, and he alternated between swigs of that and the Cracker Jarls until he'd come to the bottom of the bag. Inside a plastic sheath was a baseball card.

“Special edition!” Taffy perked up. “Lucky you, they don't make too many Middling cards out here.”

Thor skimmed the back, detailing the statistics of a handful of Pittsburgh Pirates seasons. “Thank you,” he said, “you didn't have to do that.”

“It's no problem. Now you understand the song, anyway.”

The mead coursing through him, he thought he could make out the fans in the distance. No, it was not the melody he knew—that could only have come from the Middling, with its dates gone astray and trips to Coney Island that never quite panned out. But three strikes still made an out.

And yet, there was one difference more important than the type of food Taffy found for him, or even the fact that it was free. He _did_  care whether he ever got back. To that stadium, to Clam Island, to wherever he could call home.

* * *

 

“I'm sorry if I'm offending you,” Thor muttered, a little too late in his opinion. It wasn't rude to stare. Shouldn't he have been numb by then, to all the odd sights the world had in store? He didn't _want_  to be. He wanted to take it all in, observe it faithfully, never mind being a visitor. But all the same, it felt impolite.

The ox fixed him with a gaze that suggested—vaguely—that while staring might have been fine, it was the height of rudeness to interrupt someone busy _eating_. And, indeed, the ox was chewing a large portion of hay. So Thor averted his eyes for several very long moments until the ox was ready to make conversation again.

“You're not being rude. Glad to make your acquaintance. Suppose I'm an ox of a different color.”

“And how,” said Thor.

The ox was green. A dark shade of green, never to be confused with living grass, which was easily his most striking feature. This, in Thor's view, was somewhat welcome, as it took away from the fact that he was enormous even for an ox. Exactly how many times over he dwarfed Thor himself was, for once, immaterial.

“It's the way of things. Where there's blue oxen, it means a whole lot of diversity's in store. Opens up the way for folks like me. The name's Herman, by the way.”

“Thor Wignutt,” Thor said self-consciously. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, likewise,” Herman yawned, chewing off another stalk of hay. “Don't mind me.”

“So are there lots of others like you?”

“Not very many my age, although many of the newest births are a bit—eye-catching. One calf with zebra-ish stripes is rather adorable. The sideways crosses get a bit garish, but that's just my view.”

“Any reason why?”

“I suspect it has something to do with the—changes. Nobody'll ever replace the old blue oxen, of course, but there will be colorful times ahead.”

“Oh. That's nice.” And there he'd been, worried about some pollution in the grass, some unhealthy mutation. Mixed patterns...“I don't mean to pry, but are any of them shadowtails?”

“Goodness no! I wish I was. It'd help with work.” Herman gave a tremendous belch, and Thor recoiled, before the ox paced over to an empty metal cart, nodding at the empty yoke up front. “I haul wood, you see. I'd love to scamper over to the Middling and pick up lumber that no one else is using. But I suppose that's not the done thing.”

“Do you have to worry about illegally cutting splinters? Of the world tree?”

“It's a risk. More so here than the Middling, anyway, is the real problem. Sure, there's scarcity over there, but at least they have the decency to plant their forests all in one place. I'll give them credit for that. The trees here are a bit more protected.”

“So what do you need them for? Besides—bats?”

“ _I_ certainly do not need them for bats,” Herman snorted, turning back to the hay.

“Right. Sorry. Would be hard to pick one up...” Even at their most diverse, his teammates had mostly been bipedal.

“There are adaptations. For those who care. I just can't be bothered to play baseball.”

“Oh!” It shouldn't have come as a surprise—most humans would have agreed with him, if they could have gotten over the fact that they were agreeing with an enormous green ox—but Thor couldn't help but give a double-take, nevertheless. “Do you watch it?”

“Only when I have no other choice. Violet, my yokemate, has a crush on some quadruped outfielders, and when she's dragging the cart, I have to tag along.” Herman chewed on some more hay, then spit out a couple straws.

“Any reason why? Some—scandal turn you off? Or a strike?” The question sounded stupid even as he said it. He had yet to figure out whether there was much of an economy at all in Summerland. Taffy claimed things were more complicated than he'd taken them to be, but that wasn't much of an answer.

“Nope. It's just a boring sport. I'd much rather work out on my own. Take swimming, for one. By the time I've walked somewhere big enough for me to swim in I'm almost tired out, but do I mind, no! I like to swim.”

“That—well, good for you.”

“Gets a bit annoying from time to time, when all the fans get to talking. But then again, some of the Winterlanders don't really care when the lumberjacks and their friends start swapping tall tales. It is what it is—I have my job, I have my friends, I don't need to watch a bunch of people standing around chasing balls for three hours.”

And that was enough, Thor supposed. It wasn't like it was exactly a willful choice to become a fan—the game crept on you from an unexpected direction, a statistical race, an everpresent channel, an attractive player—but it was nice to know there was more than one crowd to follow. It helped to have a job, even amid the blurry, shadow economy. It helped to have friends, and Thor assumed it would help to have a family. But not everyone was cut out to be a lumberox.

“Yoohoo!” came a slow call. It was high-pitched, by oxen standards. “Herman! Quit slacking around, we have work to do!”

“That'll be Violet,” Herman muttered. “I'm fine, don't mind me.”

Thor turned to notice another ox—this one brown, perhaps somewhat orange in patches.

“What?” said Herman. “I never said we all had symbolic names.”

* * *

 

After a while Thor decided it was high time he got a job. Maybe not a long-term one—was there such a thing as a summer job when summer never ended? But at least something that let him contribute to the life of the ferishers and their friends.

Between his abilities as a shadowtail and Taffy's persuasive skills, it wasn't long before he'd found work, of a sort. He was supposed to meet the mead vendor after a baseball game, where he'd receive a carton full of fragile items. Then he'd scamper all over the Summerlands, following a very specific route to trace out all the ferisher knolls he was supposed to visit. Once his stock was exhausted, he was free to go.

“Speed is more important than accuracy,” said the vendor, “they'll come running to meet you.”

“Right,” said Thor, hefting the box in his hands, “thanks.”

And so through a few streaks of wins and losses, he made the rounds. It felt good to be useful, even if the boxes grew no lighter even as his arms strengthened. He kept up hope that one of those days, he'd run across his birth parents or at least the human changeling whose place he'd taken—but time was of the essence, and nobody had anything to share with him.

The boxes were invariably filled with shells. Tightly coiled shells, like the ones he might have uncovered along the shores of Clam Island—perhaps small animals lived inside there, that needed to be cared for by the ferishers? Or were they _food_? That would explain why the vendor had them. And yet...

Finally, he just asked, and the vendor told him to arrive on time to take in a game live. Thor was happy to oblige, assuming that he would get to walk around the stadium and hawk Cracker Jarls. But instead, he was escorted up to the press box, where a ferisher was seated alongside a scaled-down giant.

“Oh, hello!” the ferisher smiled. “You must be Thor. I'm Pleasantry, and this is the incomparable Sonny Ferdy.”

“AFTERNOON,” said Sonny.

“I don't mean to be any trouble,” said Thor.

“You won't be!” Pleasantry smiled, “just sit over there, and do try not to make much noise.”

Thor took a seat on a stool in the back, happy to find that he could still have a clear view. Just as relieving, however, was the news that he didn't really need one.

Because Pleasantry and Sonny were—well, Pleasantry was, in spite of Sonny—calling the game. Scrabble Crag were the visitors, up against a somewhat favored Raven Ridge home side. Pleasantry detailed the Scrabble Crag starter's trouble finding his stuff in the early innings, the home run from talented diva Sokisna at second base, but also the way Scrabble Crag turned a few fortunate double plays in the middle innings to keep the scoreline respectable.

Sonny, for his part, turned out to be there mostly as a token former player. “Sonny, I know you've been in games like this, when your team scores a big insurance run in the sixth.”

“THAT'S RIGHT, PLEZ.”

“And it's just so important, isn't it, to go out there and pitch a scoreless inning in the bottom half, just to keep that momentum on your side.”

“YOU SAID IT, PLEZ. AND IF YOU CAN'T, YOU JUST EAT THE LITTLE CATCHERS. TASTY.”

“I don't think that's quite the standard strategy, Sonny, but that's all right. The visitors threatening here in the top of the seventh. One ball, two strikes. Runners on first and third, one out.”

“IT'S TIME FOR THIS DAY IN BASEBALL HISTORY, PLEZ.”

“No, Sonny, it's not, we have a threat going—taken outside by Vangle, good eye from the lefthander.”

“I KNOW IT'S HARD TO KEEP TRACK OF THE CHRONOLOGY SOMETIMES, WHAT WITH ALL THE SCAMPERING, BUT ON THIS DAY A DOZEN SEASONS AGO, THERE WAS A RAINOUT AT THE DIRGE DOME IN THE WINTERLANDS.”

“Taken for a ball for a full count—”

“A RAINOUT! IT WAS HOT ENOUGH TO RAIN! IN THE WINTERLANDS! THAT'S WHY THIS IS THE GREATEST GAME, PLEZ, THERE'S JUST ALWAYS SOMETHING NEW.”

“Absolutely, Sonny, and Vangle here has just tied it with a double to deep left.”

The seventh inning stretch featured Sokisna leading the crowd in a display of apathy for whether or not they ever got back (she really was a diva), and then it was on to the late innings. Although there was nothing in the way of commercial breaks between half-innings, Sonny would nevertheless rival any human announcer with his impromptu announcements that “THIS GAME IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY TASTY, TASTY REUBEN SKULLS. I COULD DO WITH A GOOD REUBEN SKULL RIGHT NOW,” before Pleasantry attempted to remind listeners of the score.

With two outs in the ninth, a reliever for Raven Ridge worked an oh-and-two count on Roverlou of Scrabble Crag, before she swung on and missed a sharp curveball. On to the bottom half, Thor assumed. “But no! It's a dropped third strike! It's gotten away from the catcher, yes—and Roverlou will make it to first! The throw is not in time, Scrabble Crag have new life, and who knows, they could do this in regulation!” Two singles later, the lead was secured.

The visitors pitched a perfect bottom of the ninth, over only a few high-stakes digressions from Sonny. “I'D LIKE TO INVITE ALL OF YOU TO JOIN ME AT THE WALK TO CLEAN UP RAVEN RIDGE. THERE'S BEEN A LOT OF LITTERING HERE, AND IT'D BE A SHAME TO LET ANY OF THOSE TASTY FERISHER BONES GO TO WASTE.”

“And that'll be all for today,” said Pleasantry, with a sigh of relief. “Popup back to the mound, it's all over. An amazing comeback from Scrabble Crag, who take this one three to two. Seven hits and no errors for the victorious side, eight hits and two errors for the home team today. That's all for today, but we'll be back here after the off day, as Dandelion Hill come to visit! Thanks so much for listening.”

“That was a great game!” Thor exulted, once he'd gotten an _all-clear_  sign to speak. “Thanks for having me.”

“Least we could do!” said Pleasantry. “And thank you, in advance.”

“Er, for what?”

And then Sonny knelt down to retrieve, from under the desk, an enormous box—full of seashells. “NOT JUST THE OCEAN YOU CAN HEAR IN THESE.”

Thor paced over. “You—you don't have radios, do you. Or television.”

“Technology gets borrowed in fits and starts. The zeppelin was ahead of its time,” Pleasantry reflected. “But no, there hasn't been a good way to transmit anything live.”

“RE-CREATIONS WERE GOOD. UNTIL THE CONNECTION CUT OUT. AND I HAD TO MAKE UP STORIES ABOUT GIANTS EATING THE UMPIRE. THEY FIRED ME FOR SOME REASON.”

“Can't see why,” Thor muttered.

“I KNOW, RIGHT. MY EXPERIENCE AS A FORMER PLAYER SHOULD COUNT FOR MORE!”

“So, the game's already over, by now. Then why should it matter how fast I go to the mobs? Or are people afraid of spoilers?”

“The game's not over until it's over,” said Pleasantry. “And if you scamper fast enough, sometimes you can be at places before it's even begun.”

“...Right. Yes. That bit. I'll be going, then?” He picked up the box. “Thanks.”

“Of course! Come back any time.”

“DON'T COME BACK _ANY_ TIME. CAN'T COME BEFORE TODAY. I MIGHT GET CONFUSED AND EAT YOU.”

“Thanks for the warning,” admitted Thor, and he climbed back down to the field level.

* * *

 

Thor tagged along when Taffy visited one of her Sasquatch friends; it wasn't difficult to make room. Admittedly, Elna kept a messy home, but she was able to shove her piles of books off to the side to accommodate the guests.

“Do you play baseball?” Thor asked, slowly flipping through one of the books in question.

Elna laughed. “We aren't the sort, I'm afraid. Too hot, too many lazy teammates drinking mead all day—and for the ones who do care, well, I'm rather a disappointment. No speed, no hand-eye coordination...it's not for us.”

“Well, I mean, sometimes...”

“ _Watching_ it, now, that's another story entirely.” She paced over, smiling. “And even just analyzing it.”

Elna flipped to a chapter in the middle of the book, sending Thor jumping across the desk and out of the way. “What's it say?” he called, walking back towards her.

“Summary of some newfangled statistics. There've been a lot of different groups working independently, to compile the all-time records—but it's difficult, in the absence of much coordination between the worlds. Even here, people will get worked up about which statistics to track. Silly, really, when you could be spending your time arguing about team rivalries instead!”

“Who's your team?”

“Do you know, I don't take much of a rooting interest—just following whichever chase is most compelling at the time.”

“Ever heard a Raven Ridge game?”

“Oh, they're fantastic! Yes, I'd like to see whether Hoyper sets the home run record.”

“Is there a chase on? What's the record at?”

“Er...thirty...six? Or thirty-five or thirty-seven. Or maybe sixty-three. Actually it might be sixty-four come to think of it, no, that's the stolen bases. Um. I don't actually know what the record is. But it'll be a good chase, anyway!”

“How big is this book—don't answer that—and you don't _know_? You're not making your species look very good.”

“You must be one of those new-stat wonks.”

“ _New_ stats?”

“All the controversial ones. Seasonal home runs. Runs driven in. Earned run average.”

“Isn't that what you put in a box score? I've seen that in the encyclopedia...”

“Oh, of course! A box score you're reconstructing one game at a time, you want to know everything people did that day. And the encyclopedia, well, they want to talk about the great old games, one at a time. But cumulatively? That's where the controversy comes in.”

“If this is what you call controversial, maybe things needed to be shaken up around here. Not literally,” he amended, but too late; she'd reached for another book, closing the one nearest him with what passed for a slam.

“How do you measure a season, when the summer never ends? How do you 'drive in' a runner, when the transportation is—”

“Stalled with the zeppelins?” Thor filled in.

“And how do you decide whether a run was earned, I mean, really _deserved_ , without several ethical arguments that the umpire has to break up before the game can move on? It's all so arbitrary.”

“If that's arbitrary, do I even want to know what the other books are full of?”

“I don't know. Do you?”

“Yes,” he sighed, and Elna propped one up in front of him.

It was written in fine print, which was perfect for him. Several lines were taken up by what might have passed for equations, though they didn't quite follow the notation he was used to. Instead, branching lines from all directions brought together strange abbreviations. Wonder and hubris per innings pitched. Relief pitcher holds—not to be confused with the kind before the save, but the kind that just counted up how many different ways there were to hold the ball. And, when the game was played at the fringes and borders of known geometry, Non-Pythagorean record. “People _count_ all of this?”

“Not just anybody does. It takes some experience.”

“I'll say. So, what are Raven Ridge good at—statistically?”

“Well, before his injury a while back, Hoyper was on pace to win the Triple Kron. He was leading in actual stolen bases—the groundskeepers hate him—covers knocked off the ball—and...oh, what's the third...not actual saves, that's pitchers...oh! Batting average.”

“ _Batting average_?”

“I'll admit, it's kind of a contrived ratio. You have to divide by the at-bats, but that doesn't count all the other plate appearances...”

“Well, walks aren't that common.”

“And sacrifices and hit batters?”

“Are less common...”

“And having the inning end while you're still up at bat? Or being replaced in the middle of your plate appearance?”

“Must be rarer still, surely...”

“Unless you're responsible for the majority of a strikeout, in which case, you have to get added back in again. You see it really is an artificial setup.”

“But it's still—I mean—well, not my place to argue, I guess. Isn't everything else you compute just as contrived?”

“Of course. No one's hiding that part, it just gives us something to argue about on off days.”

“But it's not objective.”

“And that's where we get back to the box scores. Or even just the linescores. The final scores. Who won, who lost. If that matters to you at all—well, it's written down. You can't get more objective than that.”

“And the others?”

“The others are up to interpretation anyway. The lengths of the seasons change, and so do the balls and the talent pool and the shape of the field, and the rules. Not just this world...the statistics don't lie, I'm not saying that. But arguing about which ones are most meaningful, that's just what fans _do_. What they've always done.”

“I guess.”

“What did you want? Some single crown for the best player, bestowed by some unchanging formula? The ultimate star of stars, decided once and for all?”

“If you knew a formula, that could calculate that, without taking anything else into account...” Thor trailed off, giving an imperceptible shake of his head.

“The Middling computers help, mind you. It's much easier to get everything tabulated, when you're not hand-writing it all. But it's another thing to _be_  a computer.”

“Yeah, I'm not an android,” said Thor. “I'm not an android.”

* * *

The undoing of Coyote's blights had not thawed the Winterlands, for thawing the Winterlands would be to make them less of what they were. The symmetry of the snowflakes, the snow angels in and out of countless fields, the dreams drawn in condensation on windows—all went on much as they had.

So did baseball. On occasion. For obvious reasons, it was not frequently played outside, but one of the innovations that the Winterlands had eventually warmed to—in their way—was domed stadiums. A different ambiance, but sometimes a welcome one, amid the decibels of screaming fans and the handkerchiefs they waved in pride (or blew their nose into, because they were, after all, cold).

There was one risk to certain domed stadiums, however. When you drew near the exit, you could not simply walk out under your own power. Rather, when you were close enough, the air pressure would sweep you off your feet, blowing you out of the stadium entirely and into the night. Many an unwary fan had lost their scorecard or remaining snacks that way.

But that didn't compare to being a fraction of the size of the giants who called the stadium home, and being literally wafted into the air, then dropped into the snow. Such was Thor's fate, after taking in one ill-advised night game. Panicking, he tried to dig forward without risking burying himself under more snow. At last, he found a piece of cardboard to perch on.

“Hello?” he called. “Can anyone hear me?” But his voice was lost in the hubbub of the dispersing fans.

He continued yelling, trying to see if whatever he was sitting on could make a sled to push him forward, but no one responded. Finally, a deep voice rang out from overhead. “HAS ANYONE SEEN MY BASEBALL CARD?”

“Down here!” he waved. And at last, an enormous hand dug him out of the snow.

“SHOOT. SOMPRAT JERTE AGAIN. I HAVE MORE OF HIM THAN I KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH.”

“Excuse me?” said Thor.

“YOU WERE SITTING ON MY CARD. I THOUGHT IT WAS ONE I CARED ABOUT, BUT I HAVE MORE OF SOMPRAT JERTE THAN I KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH.”

“This—Jerte. Was he a bad player?”

“HE WAS FANTASTIC. HIT THE HOMER IN THE GLEAMING AND ALL. BUT I DON'T NEED ANOTHER CARD.”

“I'll trade you,” said Thor impulsively, “here.”

He regretted it as soon as he'd made the offer—how would a giant hold his card?—but his rescuer thought it over. “SOUNDS GOOD. THANKS.”

And perhaps by some powerful grammer, the Jerte card fit right in his pockets. Thor dug for the card he'd found as a prize, buried in the remnants of his old hat. “Here you go.”

“PIRATES! EXCELLENT.”

“I've never known a giant who collected baseball cards.”

“I'm not a giant,” said the person, and Thor noticed a bitterness in his voice—no, that was not the low gruffness of the giants he'd known. “At least, I don't _think_ I am.”

“Sorry. Don't mean to pry. It's just hard to tell sometimes.”

“You're telling _me_.”

Sensing a discomfort, Thor offered, “Here, you know what, if it fits you can take the hat too. It doesn't fit anymore.”

“Anymore?” But whoever it was was putting it on. “Fits great, mind you, but you really don't have to.”

“No, I have my own.” The rooster shadowtail was snug on his head, not that it was much help against Winterlands weather. “I've been growing smaller.”

“Really?”

“It's a long story.”

“Try me.”

And he wasn't asking Thor to brag about saving the worlds or downplay his contributions, just a simple description of the facts at hand. Why not? “I'm a ferisher by birth, reuben by upbringing. Changeling. Since I scampered to the Summerlands, the first time, I've started shrinking back, growing as small as I was large. Relatively speaking. I think.”

“Wh—where?” It sounded like his voice was shaking, but how could Thor know? Without even knowing which species it was supposed to sound like? Maybe it was the wind.

“Where what? I grew up in the Middling, like I said. United States...”

“I guessed that much. Where, specifically?”

“Cl-Cle Ellum? Washington State?” It had been his chorus for seasons, yet that time around it was stammered out.

And then he was falling, the hands he'd been cupped in dropping in shock. Just before he hit the ground again, he was scooped back up, by palms much sweatier than they'd been a moment before and a torrent of words sounding from above him. Gradually, he felt himself rising again, and they became clearer. “ _You!_  I don't...you don't know how long, I've been looking...”

“You're not—what would you be doing here—now?”

“I could ask you the same thing—”

“You don't know how much I've been through, over here—”

“You don't know how much gets written up, I've read a lot—”

“You're _here_ ,” they both blurted, and started to cry. Passersby would have seen their breaths freeze, one coming from very high off the ground and smaller puffs from not so high up.

One even stopped to laugh at them, outside the emptying stadium. “Tough loss?”

The voice from above Thor said “No.” Thor added a “no, well, technically, it depends on what you call—” And then he was laughing until he cried again.

“Scamper back with me,” the changeling said, after the fan shook his head and left them be. “If you want to, that is—meet people. But I understand, if you'd rather not—”

“I would. Please. And you can come to Clam Island, too. See our Summerland.”

“So that _is_  what you call it! You're more famous than you know.”

“Didn't help me find you any sooner.”

“It's all right. We're here.”

Across the worlds there were all sorts of ground rules to keep track of. Decorations in the outfield, different plants growing within the field itself. Sometimes fans spilled over into the grass, sometimes all manner of people had to crowd in through the knotholes. Often, it was ninety feet between home plate and first base. Sometimes, you didn't know whose feet to use.

But maybe, thought Thor, one rule was the same. The home-field advantage was the same, everywhere. Home is where you always get one last chance to tie things up.


End file.
